What could we possibly have in common?
The old, white gentleman and the young, brown girl.
I can see what they see.
How absolutely happy we are to see each other.
How we both have tears in our eyes, and they lean closer to catch a snatch of the conversation - the stories you're telling me of people long dead and gone.
How I reach across to hold your strong, wrinkled hand - to comfort you as much as myself, as we talk of the worst bits of our shared story.
I want to tell them to stop staring.
To look away,
because they will never understand that what family means to you and me
has nothing to do with geography, colour or age.
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